For the Love of Mike (24 page)

“There are, but I’m not one of them,” I answered, and this was relayed to Jacob’s mother. I thought as much, the look said.

Then she jumped up and disappeared into the kitchen again. A few minutes later we were summoned to table and Mrs. Singer carried in a platter of fish and a bowl of potatoes. I helped myself cautiously, not wanting to appear greedy and waited in case anyone was going to say a blessing. Luckily, I was right. Jacob’s father said some words in Hebrew and then picked up his fork.

“My mother makes the best potatoes with sour cream. It’s good, isn’t it?” Jacob said.

“Very. And the fish are herring, aren’t they? We used to eat a lot of herring at home.”

Jacob translated this and for the first time I saw a small nod of approval.

After the main course we had a sweet macaroni pudding, followed by tea and honey cake, then Mrs. Singer headed for the kitchen again. I, wanting to be the good guest and suitable friend for their son, jumped up and followed her.

“Let me help you with the washing up,” I said. “I’m well house-trained.”

She held up her hands to say no.

“But I’d be happy to,” I said as I picked up the dishes and put them in the nearest sink. She gave a cry of horror as Jacob appeared behind me.

“What did I do? I’m not going to break anything,” I said.

Jacob said something reassuring to his mother, then gave me an embarrassed grin. “You put the dairy dishes in the meat sink.”

It was then that I noticed for the first time that there were two sinks, and two stacks of dishes on the shelf.

“There are different dishes for meat and for dairy?”

He nodded. “And we can’t eat them together and there different cloths for washing and drying the dishes. One of our crazy food rules, of which there are many.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“How could you?” he said. “It really doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sure it does matter,” I said noting his mother’s distressed face.

Jacob shrugged. “They will have to get the kitchen made kosher again. It’s not the worst thing in the world. There are too many religious customs from the old country that are not practical in our new life over here and will probably be lost someday.” He brushed it aside with a gesture, but I looked at the stricken face at the sink. Jacob might take his religious background lightly, but I had the distinct feeling that his parents weren’t about to toss aside their religious customs in a new country.

“I’m really sorry,” I said to Jacob’s mother this time. “I wanted to help. I didn’t know.”

She managed a weak smile.
“Ist nichts.”

“Forget it.” Jacob took my arm and escorted me out of the kitchen, before I could break another rule, I suspect.

The atmosphere was decidedly awkward after that and we left soon after.

“They must think I’m a proper heathen.” I gave an embarrassed laugh.

“Not at all. They will think you are kind and sweet and very pretty, just like I do. They will learn to love you in time and think that I have made a good choice for myself.”

“Whoa—hold on a minute, aren’t we rushing ahead a little?” I asked, laughing nervously. “We’ve only just met, Jacob.”

“Some things you know straightaway.”

“But we know nothing about each other yet. You have only seen my good side. You haven’t had a chance to witness my terrible temper or my stubbornness. And I, in turn, know little about you. For all I know you might snore at night and be prone to fits of black despair.”

He was smiling at me the way a father smiles indulgently at his beloved child. “Whatever my faults, I promise to correct them instantly for you.”

“But Jacob—”

“Molly, is the idea of marriage so repugnant to you?” He stopped and turned to face me.

“Of course not. Sometime, in the future, I hope to marry.”

“Then the idea of marrying
me
does not thrill you with anticipation?”

“I didn’t say that either. It’s just—too soon, Jacob.”

“I’m not trying to rush you, Molly. It’s just that I knew the moment I saw you, and it would have been wonderful if you had known too.”

“I do enjoy your company, Jacob, and I think you’re a fine person too. So let’s take it slowly from there, shall we?”

“Of course. Why not? It’s a lovely Sunday and we have the day to ourselves. Let us not even think about tomorrow.”

He slipped his arm through mine and we walked arm in arm down the street. It was hard to enjoy a free day, strolling in the sunshine when I had so many things I should be doing. I really should be trying to find out whether Michael Kelly was still alive. I should also be looking into Ben Mostel and his extravagant lifestyle. Then I gave in to temptation and put those thoughts aside. Just for once, everything could wait until tomorrow.

Twenty-four

O
n Monday morning I joined the line of girls waiting outside Lowenstein’s. There was an air of anticipation in the crowd. I think some of the girls truly believed that they would go down those steps and find the place miraculously transformed into a place of heat, light, and beauty. It was a freezing cold morning, with ice in the gutters and a wind that cut right through me coming off the East River. Thank God we had not had to face temperatures as bad as this last week or we’d never have held out for four days!

Mr. Katz made a grand entrance just before seven and walked down the steps ahead of us, brandishing the key.

“You should be very grateful you have such a generous boss,” he said. “You should be very grateful you’re still working here. Me—I would have thrown the lot of you out.”

Then he stood in the doorway, scrutinizing each girl as she went in. When it was my turn, he put out a hand and stopped me.

“Not you,” he said. “The boss don’t want you back. You’re a troublemaker.”

There was a clamor around me. “But you have to have Molly back! That’s not fair.”

I was gratified to hear this, but those girls didn’t realize how relieved I was never to have to work in that place again.

“It’s all right.” I turned to face the girls. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine. No sense in making a fuss about me. I’ll get myself a better job somewhere else.”

Rose pushed her way to stand beside me. “No, Molly, it’s not all right.” She stood on tiptoe and glared at Katz. “If you don’t let her come back then we’ll all go on strike again.”

“Rose—it’s all right.” I put my hand on her shoulder to restrain her. “The girls have got you and you’ll do just famously, so don’t worry about me.” I gave her an encouraging smile as she looked at me dubiously. “No, honestly. I have a hundred plans of things I want to do. Just make sure you don’t let that bully Katz get away with anything. Remember what Lowenstein promised you and make sure he puts in electric light straightaway. And better heating too.”

I leaned across and gave her a little kiss on her cheek. “I’ll stay in touch,” I said. “I’ll come to Samuel’s Deli at lunchtime to get all the latest news.”

I gave Mr. Katz a haughty stare, then I pushed past the rest of the girls waiting on the steps. I was free of Lowenstein’s. It felt wonderful. And it was also playing into my plans—I could now quite legitimately go back to Mostel’s, tell Mr. Mostel what had happened, and start working there again. That way I could keep an eye on his son, as well as on anyone else who might want to sneak up to his office and come down with his designs. And I could ask questions about Katherine too. Just perfect, in fact. I skipped down Essex Street with sprightly step.

Later that morning I was reinstated at Mostel’s. The conditions inside were not much better than at Lowenstein’s—cold and drafty and the only heat coming from a couple of oil stoves, one at either door.

“I don’t know why the boss was softhearted enough to take you back,” Seedy Sam said, looking at me with great distaste. “First you walk out and then you want to come back. You should recognize a good thing when you see it.”

“I’ll let you know when I see it,” I said, eyeing him with the same distaste. Then I breezed past him to take my old place next to Sadie. She looked surprised and delighted to see me.

“How come they took you back?” she whispered.

“My uncle did the boss a favor once. I’m not letting him forget it,” I said.

A little later Mr. Mostel himself showed up. “I’ve been working on the new designs all weekend, girls,” he said, waving a briefcase at us, “and I think we’ve got the goods this time. My new styles will be all the rave. They’ll go off the racks like hot-cakes. I just need to put some finishing touches and get the sample hands to work on them, and then it’s full speed ahead.”

At lunchtime the girls crowded around me as we went down the stairs.

“How come you’re back again? Mostel never takes anyone back!” Golda said.

“Where did you go, anyway?” Sadie asked.

“I had things I had to do,” I said vaguely. “Now I’ve done them and I need to start earning money again.”

“I know where she went.” Little Sarah gave me a knowing look. “She went to work for Lowenstein. And I know what she was really doing there too.”

“You do?” The alarm must have shown on my face.

“Sure. You’re not really one of us, are you?” She stood on the sidewalk, smiling at me, blushing at being the center of attention for once.

For once I didn’t know what to say. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“I heard about the strike,” she said triumphantly. “Everyone is talking about it. I heard you were sent there to help organize the workers. You really work for the union ladies, don’t you?”

“Not exactly,” I said, relief rushing to my face. “But I did help organize the strike there, it’s true.”

“See, I knew it.” Sarah looked smug.

The rest of the girls pressed closer. “You helped organize a strike? And did the girls win?”

“Yes, they did. They went back to work today with better pay and better conditions.”

“And is that why you’re here—to do the same thing for us?” Sadie asked, her fact alight with excitement.

“I’m here to earn money,” I said.

“Oh sure. Of course you are.” Sadie touched the side of her nose and winked at me.

“You tell us how we can go on strike too.” One of the girls tugged at my sleeve. She was a beautiful stately Italian called Gina and had been very upset when Paula was fired.

“Strike? Us? Why should we want to go on strike?” an older woman asked. “We have it good here. Six dollars a week and no funny business.”

“Good? You call that good?” Gina demanded. “All garment workers are treated like dreck and you know it. It’s about time we show Seedy Sam and old Mostel that they don’t rule the world.”

“This isn’t a good time to go on strike, you know,” I said hastily. “Mr. Mostel wants to start work on his new designs this week, remember.”

“Then what better time?” Gina said. “He wants to get those garments in the stores for the holidays. He’d probably agree to anything we wanted just to keep us working.”

“He could also fire the lot of you and hire new girls to replace you,” I said. “That’s what Lowenstein threatened to do. I don’t know why he gave in so quickly.”

Disappointed faces looked at me. “Are you saying we shouldn’t go on strike like the Lowenstein girls?” one of them asked. “You think we have it so good here that we should all be happy?”

“Of course not,” I said, “and I didn’t say you shouldn’t go on strike. But you have to know what you’re doing. It’s not as easy as it sounds. You need the backing of the Hebrew Trades and the other garment workers, or they’ll make mincemeat of you.”

“Mincemeat? They kill us?” one of the Italian girls asked, staring at me with huge eyes.

I laughed. “No, but they’ll threaten you. They sent the starkes to attack us and when we tried to defend ourselves, some of us got carted off to jail for causing trouble.”

“You got sent to jail?
Oy vay!
”

I looked around the group of expectant faces. “Look, if you really want to organize, you need to join the union. You need to choose your union representatives to go to meetings for you and get advice on how to go about your strike.”

“We already had one girl start doing that stuff, didn’t we?” Golda asked. “Remember Kathy?”

“Oh sure. Kathy.” The name went around the circle of girls.

“Kathy? Was she American?” I asked.

“No, she was English. She talked funny, like you,” one of the girls said.

“She was the greatest. She stand up to Sam and she don’t take no nonsense from him.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

Blank faces stared at me. “We don’t know,” Golda said. “She was at work one day and then she got called out of the room and she never came back.”

“We asked Sam where she had gone and he didn’t know neither,” another girl added.

“Did somebody come for her? Who called her out of the room?” I asked.

Several shrugs.

“We’re not supposed to look up when we’re working,” Sadie said. “You know how Seedy Sam likes to take our money from us.”

“I work near the door,” a bouncy little redhead called Ida said. “I saw her go past and I heard her say, ‘What are you doing here?’ ”

“But you didn’t see who it was?”

“No, but soon after that Mr. Mostel’s son came in.”

“Enough of this,” Sadie said loudly. “Kathy’s gone. All the talking in the world isn’t going to bring her back. Let’s go eat. You know Sam is just dying to dock our pay for being late again.”

Nobody could disagree with this and we surged down the street to the little café where some girls bought hot drinks to go with their sandwich and others splurged five cents on the daily special. I joined the latter and had a bowl of stew that must have been made from a tough old buffalo. As I chewed on pieces of gristle, I also tried to digest what I had just heard. So Katherine had actually disappeared in the middle of the day from Mostel’s, lured from the room by someone who came for her—someone she knew. And another interesting fact had come out—Ben Mostel had come into the room right after Kathy disappeared.

If Michael Kelly was still alive, maybe he would be able to take up the story from that point. Surely he would have found out what had happened to her, especially if he was a member of the Eastmans. Gang members always have an ear to the ground, don’t they? So my number-one priority was to find Michael Kelly. Not an easy assignment. I had no desire to follow Nell Blankenship to my doom. Maybe it was now time to shake off all notions of foolish pride and ask Daniel to help me.

That evening when I returned home, I took up pen and paper.

Dear Daniel,

I witnessed an ugly incident at a garment worker’s strike on Friday last. I think that some of the starkes were members of the Eastmans gang, and one of them looked very much like the photograph of Michael Kelly. Since I am forbidden to do any more foolish investigating in that part of town, I wondered if you could find out for me if Michael Kelly is indeed still alive.

Yours sincerely,

M. Murphy

On Tuesday morning I hurried to work with great anticipation. Today was the day that Mr. Mostel was going to bring in the finished designs for the sample hands to work on. Today someone might try to borrow, steal, or copy them. Of course, if that someone was his son Ben, then why would he need to do it at the office? He could more easily take a peek at them at home in his father’s study—unless the old man kept them under lock and key.

I sat at my machine and worked with an eye on the door until Mr. Mostel came in.

“Here they are—my new designs,” he said, tapping his briefcase. “All finished and ready to go like I promised. And they are spectacular, if I say so myself. So different—so chic. You girls are going to be proud just to be working on them.” He looked around the room and was met by a lot of blank stares. Of course many of the girls just didn’t understand him, but those who did were not showing enthusiasm. Mostel smiled at us. “If you girls work hard and we get the first lot shipped by December first, there will a bonus all around. Then we’ll all have a good holiday with something to celebrate, won’t we?”